


Faces Like Knives

by voleuse



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-02
Updated: 2004-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A hunter is someone who listens.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Faces Like Knives

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S2, while Sark was working for SD-6. Title adapted and summary taken from Anne Carson's _Town of the Sound of a Twig Breaking_.

** _Cairo_ **

Another bullet strikes the far wall with razor-sharp clang, two yards away from Sark's head. He doesn't so much as swerve as he sprints towards the exit, where the car should be waiting for them.

Sydney lopes ahead of them, and he's detached enough from the angry shouts behind them to appreciate her stride. There's no hesitation, no wavering in her run, despite the spiked heels of her boots.

It's like watching a cheetah hunt, really, though at this moment they could be better compared to antelope.

They exit into sunlight, and thank heavens SD-6 managed to find a convertible, because Sydney leaps into the driver's seat, Sark bounding in after her, and three bullets strike the side of the car before they get the keys in the ignition and the car started, but neither of them gets hit, and they escape into the chaos of the city.

*

 

When they call ahead to the airport, however, Dixon tells them that they've been cut off. There's a blockade set up on their route, and they won't be able to get to the field without being searched and, most probably, interrogated.

He suggests that they lay low in the city a while, and try again in the morning.

He also suggests that they try not to kill each other in the meantime.

They agree to the first suggestion, but carefully make no promises regarding the second.

*

 

After circling around, doubling back, and otherwise making sure that they haven't been followed, Sydney points out a relatively decent-looking hostel, which Sark is tempted to label a dump, but Dixon emphasized low-profile, so low-profile they shall be.

They park the car on the street and leave the keys in the ignition. Sydney glances back at it as they enter the hostel, but Sark places a hand at the small of her back, pushing her inside. "It's better if it's stolen," he murmurs in her ear, pasting a smile on his face as the clerk at the desk greets them.

"Of course," she says, loudly, and then turns the full force of her charm on the clerk.

Sark isn't surprised that they're able to get a room, but the acquisition of a private bath is astonishing. Clearly, he's underestimated Sydney's charisma.

He makes a mental note of it, for future reference.

*

 

She commandeers the bathroom without a word to him, simply walking into it, overnight bag in hand, and shutting the door. The lock clicks into place, distinctly, and he's certain she timed it so that he couldn't mistake the rebuke.

Not, of course, that he's interested.

Not at all.

When he hears the shower sputter on, he resigns himself to a wait, stripping off his leather jacket and sliding out of his shoes.

There's only one bed, and after assuring himself of the room's security, such as it is, he sprawls across the mattress with a gust of breath, allowing himself to revel in the cool of the bedspread, after a long, hot afternoon in a warehouse.

He wonders if Sydney will let him borrow her shampoo.

*

 

"There is no way in _hell_ I'm lending you my shampoo, Sark."

"Why not?"

"Because." Sydney plants her hands on her hips, trying to think of a good reason while reminding herself that _no_, Sark's _evil_, and that expression of wounded innocence on his face is an _act_. "Because." She scrounges for an excuse that doesn't end with _and you're evil!_ "Because you brought your own luggage." She points to his small suitcase.

"I didn't pack shampoo."

Sydney blinks. "Why not?"

Sark shrugs, flips his suitcase open with his foot. "I brought what the authorities would expect to find in the luggage of a tourist of my age."

Sydney stares at him.

"Feel free to check, if you don't believe me."

"Fine." She kneels in front of the suitcase, shoving aside jeans and T-shirts and a soft tangle of black cloth that she refuses to acknowledge as Sark's boxers. There's a shaving kit, and toothpaste, and-- "Condoms, Sark?"

"You'd be surprised how often that distracts officials at customs."

"Right." Sydney hits the bottom of the suitcase and pries the lining up, just in case.

Nothing. She sighs.

"The shampoo is on the counter."

Sark stands, bends to grab a few items from his suitcase, and Sydney falls back so they don't come in contact. He smirks. "I won't insult you with my thanks, Sydney."

"Whatever."

He disappears into the bathroom, and she circles the room, checking the locks on the door and window, then making sure Sark didn't plant any surveillance while she was in the shower.

When she's sure that everything's clear, and the shower has been going for a few minutes, she flops onto the bed and tries to figure out a way she can keep the bed to herself without seeming petty.

She settles for hiding a switchblade under the pillow she mentally claims as her own, and burrowing beneath the sheets.

She's almost asleep by the time Sark emerges from the bathroom, but her eyes fly open, and she pins her gaze on the cling of his T-shirt, so as to resolutely ignore the boxers he's wearing.

Sark finishes towelling his hair dry and deposits the towel back in the bathroom before returning to stand by the bed. "Sydney," he begins, and she wonders if the courtesy in his tone is affected, "might I--"

She turns over so that her back is to him, which might not be the best idea, but it beats having to look him in the eye as he slides under the covers. "Just keep your hands to yourself."

"Of course." He sounds amused, now. "Good night."

"Whatever."

*

 

The sun clings at her, heating her limbs, wrapping its rays around her shoulders and waist, murmuring against her neck. Sydney moans in the morning's embrace, twisting her body against its confines, and it responds in kind.

She drifts awake lazily, for once not startled awake by training or nightmare, and as she grows more aware, she realizes what's different.

It's been a while since she woke up in somebody's arms. She basks in the feeling for a while, then his arm tightens around her hips, his erection brushes against the small of her back, and Sydney remembers who, exactly, is pressing his body against hers.

"Sark?"

She knows the precise moment Sark wakes up, because that's when his entire body tenses, not moving away from her, but no longer wrapping around her.

She should push him away. She should hit him. She should slide her hand under her pillow, grab the knife, and roll away in case he's trying to kill her.

"Sydney?"

It's a hushed sound, the way he whispers her name, and involuntarily, she shivers. His mouth is millimeters away from her neck, and she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. _God._

She turns her head, looks over her shoulder, and he's right there, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Her body arches as she turns her head, and their hips press together like magnets.

Sydney thinks it's been much, much too long, and she's obviously gone crazy, because suddenly she's kissing Sark, and he's kissing her back.

As his mouth trails over her skin, down her body, she tries telling herself it's just a dream. A hallucination, maybe, as Sark yanks her panties off, as she pulls his T-shirt over his head, pushes his boxers off his hips, or maybe she's been drugged.

Then his lips are on hers again, his tongue in her mouth, and she moans incoherently, loudly. Wraps a leg around his hips, feels him, right _there_, and it has to be a dream, because she's never been so ready as this.

Then he pulls away. Props himself on his elbows and stares down at her, until she meets his eyes.

He doesn't say anything, but when she digs her nails into his back, he smiles.

*

 

** _Los Angeles  
Three Days Later_ **

"Mr. Sark." Jack Bristow's voice is icy cool, which is only unusual because it's usually not directed at him.

Sark looks up from the file on his desk, allows a hint of curiosity to color his expression. "Yes?"

"How was Cairo?"

"Cairo?" Sark covers his hesitation by closing the manila folder. There's no way Bristow could know. "I assume you've reviewed our reports."

"I have."

"There's nothing left unsaid."

Jack stares at him for a full minute, stoic.

Sark doesn't twitch.

"Well, then," Jack smiles, and it's more eerie than the stoicism, "I appreciate your time."

As Jack walks away, Sark dares to breathe again.

There are few things he fears, if anything at all, but he knows better than to get on Jack Bristow's bad side.

He returns to the files on his desk.


End file.
